A Matter of Sobriety
by FFcrazy15
Summary: When a patient arrives at the 4077th with an ailment that can't be aided by scalpels and sutures, Fr. Mulcahy is forced to call on old experiences. But what will happen when the rest of the camp knows the truth? F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended.

**A/N: I know it's been a long time, but I thought I'd finally post this. Hope you all enjoy it!**

**M*A*S*H**

"What's that you have there, Father?"

Mulcahy held up the tray he was holding. "Lime Jell-O. The cook just got a shipment, and I managed to convince him to give me a little for the patients who could stomach it."

Margaret nodded. "Some of them are awake; I think they can probably handle it."

"Thank you, my dear." He walked into the room, careful not to spill the tray. There were a group of about four young men playing poker in a small box of beds they'd convinced the nurses to push together. One of them had a straight flush, and the priest couldn't help but smile. Two others were sitting up in their beds while one taught the other how to do cat's cradle, and another man was reading a book in the right corner nearest the door.

"Hey, look!" said one of the people playing cat's cradle. "He's got Jell-O!"

Everyone looked over and gave out various exclamations of surprise as Mulcahy began passing out the green treat. The poker players accepted it with a few muffled 'thanks's, digging in to the first good food any of the patients had seen in a long time. The first cat's cradle player, who had alerted to the ward to his presence, accepted gratefully, but the second politely refused.

He walked over to the man reading the book, who hadn't looked up when he'd come in. "Would you like some Jell-O, son?" Mulcahy offered.

"Oh, uh, sure Father." He took the little plastic cup.

Mulcahy caught sight of the book he was reading, and the bookmark inside. A photograph of a blonde woman and a small girl smiled happily back at him. "Is that your family?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. That's my wife, Jill, and my little girl, Sarah." He smiled. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

"They're a lovely family."

Simmons nodded and glanced around. "Hey, you know where a man can get something to drink around here?"

Mulcahy blinked. "Well, I suppose you could stop by the Officer's Club, when you're able to walk again. I don't think the nurses would want you having any alcohol in your blood right now, however. Perhaps when you're feeling better?"

The man paused a moment, and then nodded. "Sure thing. Hey, maybe you and I can go get one later, huh?"

He hesitated, and then said, "Perhaps." He was about to walk away when he stopped. "I couldn't help but notice that your dog tags say you're Catholic; I say Mass every morning at seven, when you're feeling up to it."

"Oh, no," the man said, a little awkwardly. "Naw, I'm not practicing. Thanks, though."

"I see. Well, if you change your mind." He smiled kindly and walked away.

The man watched him go, biting his cheek. A moment later, he tipped back his Jell-O cup.

**M*A*S*H**

"You know," Mulcahy said, taking a bite of his dinner, "It's a common belief among Catholics that everyone has a vocation."

"Oh yeah?" Hawkeye said, taking a drink of powdered milk.

"Yes. Someone should tell our cook to find his."

"Let's draw straws," B.J. agreed.

_"Attention, folks: we have just received a new movie, which will be playing in the Mess tonight at 21:00 hours. It should be warned that this film is of a somewhat 'sophisticated' nature, as Col. Potter had me put it. That is all."_

"Hey, would you look at that?" Pierce said, grinning. "I like a little sophistication. What about you, B.J., you coming tonight?"

"Can't; I've got to finish my letter home to Peg."

"You're no fun. Whadaya say, Father; want to see what you've been missing?"

The priest raised an eyebrow. _"No."_

"Aw, I'm just messing with you, Father." Hawkeye took a drink of his powdered milk. "I'm on post-op in ten. See you guys later."

"Actually, Hawkeye, I'd like to come with you," Fr. Mulcahy said, standing up. "I should probably check in on some of the patients. There may be someone who wants communion."

"Sure; let's go. See you, Beej."

The two left and headed for the post-op ward. When they got there, Hawkeye went over to do some paperwork, and Mulcahy started visiting with the patients. He read a letter to one of the patients with an eye injury and prayed with another. Eventually, he made his way to the last bed, where the patient he'd been talking to before was still reading his book.

"Hello, son," he said kindly, walking over.

The man looked up, a tick in his jaw. "Hey, Father." He went back to reading.

A little surprised, Mulcahy said, "Er- if there's anything I could do for you…?"

"I'm fine," he said shortly.

"Are you?" the priest said, worried. "You seem a little out of sorts."

"Look, Father, I said I'm fine!" he snapped, slamming the book down.

Mulcahy stepped back, startled. "I- I see," he said. "Er… well. Have a good day, then."

The man glared at him, and then went back to reading. He was just about to leave when the man said (without looking up from his book), "Father?"

"Oh, um, yes?"

"The speakers said there was going to be a movie tonight; is everyone going?"

"Most of them, I suppose," he said, surprised. "But I'm afraid that you won't be able to go; you're still on bed-rest. I wouldn't exactly recommend a movie of that nature, either."

The patient nodded and said nothing else, although there was still an irritated look in his eyes.

Frowning, Mulcahy walked over to the desk. Hawkeye looked up. "Hey, Father; something wrong?"

"No, I don't think so… One of the patients just seemed a little aggravated, that's all."

"You want me to talk to him?"

"No, that's alright." He glanced back at the far corner, still concerned._ Could it be…?_

"It's fine," he finished, unsure whether or not he were telling the truth.

**M*A*S*H**

He finished his compline prayers and tucked his breviary back onto his shelf. Humming slightly, he picked up his towel, intending to take a shower now that no one was waiting.

An urgent knock came to the door. "Father, are you there?!" a voice cried.

Startled, he opened the door. Kellye looked back at him with tears in her eyes. "Kellye!" he said, surprised. "You're quite distressed; what's wrong?"

"It's Lt. Simmons!"

"Who?"

"One of the patients! He's gone!"

He dropped his towel. "My God! Well- have you informed the doctors?"

"I don't know how," she said fearfully. "I'd be in so much trouble. I went to use the latrines and when I came back, he was just gone!"

"Now calm down; this certainly isn't your fault." He followed her outside. "Let's go tell the doctors and I'm sure we can find him. He's still in recovery; he can't have gotten far."

They hurried over to the mess, where the movie was still rolling, and he stepped inside. He accidentally caught a glimpse of the footage and flushed a dark red, quickly turning away and searching through the rows until he found the man he was looking for. "Hawkeye!" he whispered.

The surgeon glanced over, his arms around a nurse. "Oh, Father! You decided to join us heathens after all?"

"Hawkeye, this is serious. Get Colonel Potter and meet me outside."

The surgeon lost his humor and quickly disentangled himself from the nurse to go find Potter. By the time the three met again outside, Kellye had already gotten the other two doctors.

"Whatever is going on here?" Charles said, worried. "Kellye looks like she's seen a banshee and won't tell us what's happened."

"A patient has gone missing," Mulcahy said as calmly as he could manage. The others all let out exclamations of disbelief, and he hurriedly shushed them. "Let's not disturb the others. Kellye said she went to use the latrine and when she returned, one of the patients had vanished."

"I looked all over post-Op and OR; I couldn't find him anywhere," she said tearfully.

"Calm down, li'l lady, we know this ain't your fault," Potter said. "Now which patient is it?"

"Lt. Simmons, sir."

"Simmons?" Hawkeye said, surprised. "That's the guy who snapped at you earlier today, Father."

"You mean the one in the corner?" he said, surprised.

"Yeah, that's him. Angry guy; likes to glare at people."

"Oh dear," the priest sighed. "This may be easier resolved than I thought."

"What do you mean?" B.J. asked.

"I think I know where he is. Come with me."

They followed him over to the Officer's Club. He hesitated, and then opened the door quietly. "Oh dear…"

Inside, the OC was empty save for one. At the bar, Lt. Simmons sat, one bottle in hand, the other empty on the hardwood.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Hawkeye snapped at him, bursting past the priest. "You just had extensive surgery; how the hell did you even get out of bed?!"

"Hawkeye, let me handle this," the priest warned, coming forward. Simmons looked up at him, obviously drunk.

"What do you want, Father?" he grunted.

"I want you to come back with me to Post-Op."

Simmons considered it, and then stood up. "A'right, fine." He stood up and grabbed his bottle.

Mulcahy caught his hand. "I think you ought to leave that here," he said firmly.

Simmons' eyes turned angry. "Look, Father, I'm fine."

"You and I both know you're not."

"I don't need your help!"

Mulcahy's mouth was tight. "Put the bottle down, son."

Simmons swung at him. The priest ducked and a moment later returned it with a right cross. The man crumpled to the ground, the beer bottle shattering and spilling everywhere.

He leaned over, panting. B.J. hurried forward. "He seems alright, just unconscious. Good thing we found him; otherwise he could be a lot worse off. How'd you know he'd be here?"

"He was showing the signs of alcohol withdrawal; I made an educated guess." The priest frowned, feeling a little guilty about the nice bruise blooming on the man's jaw. "We should probably get him back to Post-Op."

"We'll handle it," Potter assured him. "Hunnicutt, Winchester, help me carry him. Pierce, go get Klinger to run off some forms; if this man's really been hitting the bottle that hard, we should check for organ damage."

"You mean other than the usual organ damage?"

"Exactly."

"Anything I should do, Colonel?" Mulcahy asked.

"Pray," the doctor advised, before helping B.J. and Winchester heft Simmons up and haul him out of the room.

Hawkeye and Mulcahy walked out together. "I should probably be getting back to my tent," the priest said. "Good evening, Hawkeye."

"'Night." The doctor was about to go himself before he stopped the other man and said, "Hey, by the way, good job tonight; the rest of us never would have noticed, he was hiding it so well." The surgeon slapped him on the back. "You've got a good eye, Father; if I didn't know better, I'd think you had some experience in this sort of stuff."

"Yes, uh, well…" He trailed off and then said again awkwardly, "I should be going. Good night."

Hawkeye frowned a little at that. Something about Mulcahy's tone was off. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have experience? Did you work at some sort of recovery program or something?"

The priest hesitated for a split second, and then said, "No, I was- I never worked there, per say."

"Per say?" Hawkeye frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Well, not in a matter of speaking."

"Well either you did work there or you didn't; it's not exactly multiple ch-" He stopped as it dawned on him. Mulcahy looked away.

He struggled to speak for several moments, before he said, "You mean you were-"

He nodded, not meeting the surgeon's eyes. "In my younger years."

"But-" Hawkeye looked around, baffled. "But you're a priest."

Mulcahy gave him a look. Hawkeye realized what he'd just said. "I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean-"

"No, I know what you meant," he said with a sigh. "And it's precisely for that reason that I didn't want anyone to know."

Hawkeye still looked like he'd been hit by the proverbial ton of bricks. "I don't understand; I mean, I've seen you drink with us before, like when we go to Rosie's and stuff."

"Hawkeye, have you ever actually gotten a good look at what I drink?"

The surgeon thought back. "No," he said, surprised. "I guess I never thought about it."

"It's sarsaparilla. Root beer," he added, at the doctor's confused frown. "Rosie and Igor know what I mean when I ask, and I just don't make mention of it."

"But- what about Communion; you have to drink the wine, right?"

"Well technically at that point It's the Sacred Blood, but I see your point. I can consume a very small amount and receive It that way, but it's still difficult."

"Even when it's just a little?"

"That's the whole problem," Mulcahy sighed, taking off his hat embarrassedly. "You've seen me drunk; remember when Frank imposed prohibition? 'Just a little' quickly became quite a lot. I knew I shouldn't have taken it… I just can't believe no one added two and two together."

Hawkeye tried to come up with something to say. "…Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" he asked finally.

"Well… to be completely honest, I didn't want anyone to know," Mulcahy admitted. He paced a few yards past the doctor before turning back around. "I'm a priest, a man of God. Like it or not, people expect a certain behavior from me." He shook his head, a worried frown creasing his features. "Can you imagine what people would think of me? I'm supposed to be their spiritual leader, Christ's representative. They wouldn't see me the same if they knew."

"Father, I'm sure that's not true."

"Really?" the priest said, sounding doubtful. "Hawkeye, can you honestly say that you don't think of me even a little differently than you did a few minutes ago?"

The surgeon hesitated. "Well-"

"And that's you!" Mulcahy said emphatically. "All due respect, Hawkeye, but can you imagine if Margaret found out? Or Colonel Potter?" He looked troubled by the very thought. "Please, don't tell anyone else. If people knew I was a recovered alcoholic, they'd treat me differently- perhaps not out of cruelty, but it would still happen." He put his hat back on with a sigh. "I have enough trouble as it is just trying to… fit in. I don't need another reason to be thought of as different."

"I guess I can understand that," Hawkeye agreed. "Alright, Father, I'll keep this between us."

"Thank you, Hawkeye; that means a great deal to me." He looked back towards post-OP. "When that young man wakes up, I want to talk to him. Alone, if possible."

"Alright, I'll send someone to come get you when he's up. G'night, Father."

"Goodnight. Sleep well."

The two parted ways, and the priest headed back to his tent. As he closed the door, he let out a low sigh and sat down heavily on his cot, taking off his glasses. In his mind's eye, he could see the desperation, the harsh determination in that young man's eyes. He remembered that same hard look in his father's… and in his own. "Lord," he said softly, voice breaking the warm silence in the tent, "I don't know how You can manage to bring good from bad, and I don't know why You would want to use me here, but You once sent one of Your servants to help me in my own time of need. If my struggles can help this young man, then show me how."

With that, he reached up and turned out his lights.

**M*A*S*H**

"Father."

The priest looked over from where he was getting breakfast. "Oh, hello, Charles. What is it?"

"Lt. Simmons has awakened," the Bostonian informed him. "I believe Pierce said you wanted to speak with him?"

"Oh, yes," he said quickly, putting his tray down. "Thank you. I'll be right back."

"Mm. Have a nice trip," the surgeon said drily.

He hurried out of the mess and practically ran to Post-Op. Hawkeye met him at the door. "He's up and he's not happy," he warned Mulcahy.

"I can believe it. Hawkeye, could you perhaps get B.J. out of the room for a few minutes? I'd rather he not hear this."

"Sure, no problem." He looked over into the room. "Hey, Beej! I hear the Mess has actual food today!"

"In our Mess tent? You must be dreaming," the blond doctor called back.

"I can watch the patients for a few moments if you'd like to go check," Mulcahy offered.

B.J. glanced around. "Yeah, I think we can spare a few minutes. Alright, Hawk, let's go."

The two headed off. Before he left, Hawkeye caught Mulcahy by the arm. "Good luck," he said.

The priest grimaced. "Let's hope I don't need it."

Inside the ward, most of the patients were still asleep, catching the extra hours their commanding officers didn't allow back on the lines. One in particular was awake. Mulcahy swallowed and said a quick prayer in his mind before walking over. "Morning, son."

Simmons looked up at him, obviously not pleased. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

"Well I don't want to talk to you."

"Please, just a moment of your time?"

The man ground his teeth, but said, "A'right, fine." Mulcahy sat down. "What do you want?" he repeated.

"I want to talk to you about what happened last night."

"You mean you hitting me?"

"I mean you leaving your bed while still in recovery to get liquor."

Simmons looked away, rolling his eyes. "Look, Father, I'm fine. So I had a few, so what?"

"You 'had a few' shortly following a very serious and dangerous operation. My son, if you won't be honest with me, at least be honest with yourself: you have a problem."

There was a pause, and then Simmons said, "A'right, so maybe I got a problem. But it's my problem, no one else's! I don't need your help!"

"You're addicted."

"What would you know about it anyway?!"

Mulcahy stared directly at him. "More than you'd think," he said seriously. Simmons didn't answer, stunned. "My son, do you want this holding you back for the rest of your life?"

"I'll be fine," he growled.

"Really? So you'll be 'fine' when you go back to your wife? Your child?" The soldier looked away, and he reached forward, gripping the man's shoulder. "Think of them, Simmons. Is this the person you want to be, when you go home to them? Is this what you want your wife to see? Is this who you want Sarah to look up to?"

Simmons said nothing for a moment, before he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I'll stay right here with you until the withdrawal symptoms pass."

"I don't want someone to hold my hand; I want a drink."

"Think of your family." He squeezed the man's shoulder. "We will get you through this together, I promise. We'll do it for Sarah."

There was a long, long silence, before the soldier swallowed and nodded. "Alright. For Sarah."

**M*A*S*H**

"How's he doing?" Hawkeye asked, coming into the OR.

"Well he's definitely not a happy camper, I can tell you that." B.J. looked over to where Simmons was lying, the priest sitting beside him. "Mulcahy's got him under control, though."

"He won't let anyone but Father come near him," Margaret agreed. "It's like he's the only one he trusts."

The three walked a few feet closer, still keeping a respectful distance. Simmons shook and trembled, hands curled into fists as the priest sponged his sweat-covered forehead with a cool rag. "I need that drink, Father," he said through gritted teeth.

"No, you don't," Mulcahy said quietly. "And when this is done, you won't ever have to say you need it again."

Hawkeye and B.J. watched silently from the side as the priest held the man's hand. He realized that looped through those hands were the familiar old beads of his rosary, pulled so tight there were digging into both men's skins. There was a kindness and empathy in Mulcahy's eyes as he looked at the soldier, as if he understood exactly what he was going through. Hawkeye, of course, knew that he did.

"He's such a kind man," Margaret murmured, checking her watch. "I should go; my shift ended ten minutes ago. Tell Mulcahy he's doing well."

"I will," he promised. She gave him a grateful smile and left.

The two doctors watched for a moment loner. "Go on back to the Swamp," the dark-haired surgeon said finally. "You're shift's over, too."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Well…alright," B.J., though he was obviously still worried. "I'll see you later."

Hawkeye waited until B.J. had left, and then quietly approached the priest. "Margaret thinks you're doing well," he said.

"Oh. That's very kind of her to say." He didn't look away from the patient.

"How's he doing?"

Mulcahy glanced up, mouth tight. Hawkeye nodded, understanding. "Has he hit the DT's yet?"

"Not yet."

Simmons let out a low moan, and Mulcahy gripped his hand tighter. "It's going to be alright," he assured him. "You're going to be alright, my son. Just hold on…"

Hawkeye watched in awkward silence, unsure what to do or say. When he'd gone on the wagon, it had been nowhere near this bad. He wondered if Mulcahy had gone through this, all those years ago.

Not knowing what else to do, he retreated back to his desk and started doing paperwork. The minutes ticked by slowly, and he found himself constantly checking the clock. Nine-fifteen… Nine twenty…. Nine thirty…

Around nine forty-five, a commotion started on the other side of the room, and he turned around. Simmons seemed to be trying to fight his way out of bed, Fr. Mulcahy pushing him back down.

"I can see them!" he shrieked. "I can see them on me! They're all over me!"

"Hawkeye!" the priest yelled. The doctor got to his feet.

"Oh my God, they're everywhere!" The soldier began scratching and clawing at his arms violently, as if trying to get rid of invisible insects. "Get them off me! GET THEM OFF ME! FATHER! FATHER, HELP!"

"They're not real!" Hawkeye said, helping Mulcahy keep control of the thrashing man. "Dammit, Simmons, they're not real! They're hallucinations! Kellye, get a sedative!"

The soldier had clamped his arms around the priest like a vice, sobbing into his shoulder. Mulcahy held him, teeth gritted, trying to calm the distraught man. "They're everywhere!" he sobbed. "I can feel them, Father! Please, help me!"

"I am," the priest said thickly. "I am."

**M*A*S*H**

It was very late when Hawkeye yawned and stood. The only other conscious soul in the room looked over. "You going off-duty?"

"Naw, just stretching my legs." He walked over and looked down at the unconscious Simmons. "He alright?"

"He's been moving around a bit- nightmares, I think- but the sedative helped."

He nodded. "You look beat, Father; you should get some sleep."

Mulcahy shook his head. "I'll be alright."

"I'll bring you a cup of coffee then." He hesitated, and then said, "Is it… hard for you? Seeing him go through this, I mean."

"His withdrawal symptoms seem to be a lot more difficult than I remember mine to be, but then that was over ten years ago." He looked down at the sleeping man, who had a pale sheen of sweat covering his face. "The poor man… He must be in terrible suffering."

"Yeah, I feel for the guy…" He sat down beside him. "But you know, I didn't ask about him."

Mulcahy sighed and finally looked up. "It's something I live with, Hawkeye; it's just part of who I am. Is it difficult? Yes, sometimes, but then so is being a priest." His mouth twitched into a small smile. "In some ways, I think beginning a life of sobriety actually helped prepare me for the priesthood."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" He cleared his throat. "Despite some obvious differences, abstinence is still abstinence."

"Oh, I see," Hawkeye said with a small chuckle. "How do you deal with it?"

Mulcahy gave a small shrug. "Prayer. Perseverance. Without God I would never be able to do it; it was through His grace and His grace alone that I managed to overcome my addiction in the first place."

"So you went through recovery before you went to seminary?"

"Yes," he said with a nod. "Actually, it was my sponsor, a recovered priest, who brought me back to the Church and helped me understand my vocation."

"What was his name?"

"Fr. Ignatius." The smile grew nostalgic. "He was a good friend, a true man of God… in fact, he was the one Cathy brought me to, when I asked her for help." He looked down at Simmons. "When I was in his position, Fr. Ignatius was in mine. I owe everything to him. Well, him and the Lord."

Hawkeye nodded and said sincerely, "Father, I think if Fr. Ignatius could see you right now, he'd be very proud of you."

Mulcahy glanced over at him, gratefulness in his eyes. "Thank you, Hawkeye."

He yawned suddenly, and the surgeon noted the rings under his eyes. "Father, seriously, go catch a few Z's. The guy's unconscious, and besides, we've got a spare bed in here." When the priest still looked unwilling, he said, "Look, I promise to wake you up if anything happens, and we'll switch off in a few hours."

Mulcahy hesitated. "Alright. Thank you." He stood and yawned again. "Goodness; I'm tired. Wake me at three."

"Night, Father."

He stood up, still worried, and walked over to the spare bed. He said a quick Hail Mary for Simmons, glanced over at the pair, and then lay down.

He was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**M*A*S*H**

B.J. walked into the OR that morning to see the tired priest sitting beside Simmons as Hawkeye slept in an extra bed. "How's he doing?" he asked.

"I think he's through the worst," Mulcahy said softly, brushing the sleeping man's hair out of his eyes. "He's lucky; some detoxifications can go much longer."  
>"Yeah, I know."<p>

Hawkeye, who'd been woken up by the talking, stretched and stood up. He saw B.J. and Mulcahy next to Simmons and nodded to the patient. "He okay?"

"Yes, much better than last night."

Suddenly, Simmons's eyes fluttered open. He looked around blearily, as if unsure what he was seeing.

"Hey, Simmons; how're you feeling?" Pierce asked.

The man's mouth worked soundlessly for several moments, before he managed to get out, "I'm… really thirsty."

B.J. chuckled. "I'll go get you some water."

As he walked over to the sink, Hawkeye said, "Now that you're up, we want to call Dr. Freedman; you know who he is?"

"Yeah, a few guys in our unit got sent to him. He's a psyche, right?"

"Exactly. You're through the detox, but we'd like you to complete a rehab program."

Simmons bit his tongue and looked over at Mulcahy, who gave him a small nod. "Alright," he said. "Yeah, I'll go."

"Glad to hear it," B.J. said, handing him a small cup full of water. Simmons drank it greedily and then winced. "My head hurts like hell."

"I'll bet. C'mon, Beej, let's go get him some painkiller."

"We? Why should we both go?"

Hawkeye gave him a look, and the doctor nodded in understanding. "Okay, fellas. See you in a few." Both quickly left.

There was a moment of silence, before Mulcahy said, "Are you alright?"

"I think I will be." He wavered for a moment, and then said, "Is it hard? Never, you know…"

"At times," he admitted. "But it gets easier the longer you go on, so long as you keep God with you." He patted Simmons' shoulder. "He will guide you and protect you, if you lean on Him; never forget that."

"What if I fall off the wagon again?"

"Then get back on. I know I haven't always been perfect; being 'fallen' is just part of the human nature." He smiled kindly. "That's why we have forgiveness."

Simmons let out a slow breath. "I can't imagine how I'm going to tell Jill."

"Your wife seems like a very good woman," the priest assured him. "I'm sure she'll understand. After all, you did promise to be there for each other, not just in health but in sickness as well."

The man nodded tiredly and said, "You know, the folks around here are good people, too."

He looked away, knowing what Simmons was implying. "I don't want to disappoint them."

"Father, guys like me come to you every day and tell you the worst things we've ever done, and we don't even know you." He looked the priest in the eyes. "These people really care about you. You should trust them."

Mulcahy didn't respond. Simmons, understanding his reservation, said, "Well, speaking of confessions, would you mind if I made one?"

"Oh, of course," he replied, a little surprised, and took out his stole. As he kissed it and crossed himself, Simmons said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… I don't know, a long time since my last confession."

"Alright; go ahead and confess your sins."

"Well…" He looked at him, mouth twitching into a smile. "You see, Father, I tried to hit a priest."

Mulcahy chuckled. "Really? Go on…"

**M*A*S*H**

The jeep pulled to a stop, and Hawkeye pushed the man in the wheelchair out to it, accompanied by B.J., Col. Potter, Margaret, and of course Fr. Mulcahy. After the doctor had helped Simmons into the jeep, he said, "So long, soldier."

"Yeah, say hi to your wife and kid from us," B.J. said with a smile.

"Will do," he promised.

Col. Potter tipped his hat. "Good luck, son."

Margaret stood on her tip-toes and gave Simmons a friendly kiss on the cheek. "You're going to do just fine," she assured him.

"Thanks, Nurse." He looked over to Mulcahy, unsure what to say to show his gratitude.

He didn't get the chance to. Fr. Mulcahy pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into the man's hands. "Here," he said, closing the soldier's fingers around it. "I want you to have this."

Simmons looked down, surprised. "Father, this is your rosary; I can't take this."

"Take it," the priest assured him. "I'll find another one."

Slowly, Simmons nodded and retracted his hands, the rosary clasped in them reverently. "Thanks, Father." He bit his lip, and then asked, "Will you pray for me?"

"Of course," he said, smiling. "God bless, my son."

Simmons smiled and nodded. "You too, Father." The driver put the car into gear and drove away, the soldier waving from the back until the jeep rounded the bend and went out of sight.

Slowly, the five of them started back towards the Mess. "Call me the king of irony," Potter said, "But I think we all ought to go out to Rosie's tonight and celebrate. Especially you, Padre; this was your win."

"I just did what I could."

"You did a hell of a lot more than that, pardon the language. You gave that young man his life back. I'm sure your boss upstairs is real proud of you right now."

Mulcahy smiled, maybe a little sadly, if truth be told. "Perhaps. He does have a habit of putting people where they can be best used."

"So then it's settled. All of you folks meet me at Rosie's tonight at nine, that's an order."

Pierce saluted. "Yes, sir!" he said, in faux-army tone.

"About the only one he's ever taken," B.J. commented drily.

As the others walked towards camp, Mulcahy hung back and watched. Simmons's words were still firmly lodged in his mind. "Trust them?" he said softly, taking off his hat. "Of course I trust them, I'd trust them with my life… but what would they think of me if they knew? Oh Lord, I know I'm only human, and they know that, too, but how could I tell them? They think so highly of me; they trust me. I don't want to let them down."

He walked a few more paces, still deep in thought. "But… would it really be letting them down? After all, I'm not perfect; it'd be prideful to pretend otherwise." He bit his lip and looked up at the sky. "I suppose the real question is, Lord, do I have enough faith in them and in You to hope that they'd still accept me as You do, even with my struggles and flaws?"

If he was expecting an answer, the Lord decidedly remained silent. With a sigh, he put his hat back on and hurried to catch up.

**M*A*S*H**

There was general laughter around the table that night as the five of them celebrated. Margaret put down her glass with a smile and said, "You know, there's one thing I just don't understand: you really were amazing with him, Father, and we're all grateful for that, but you're not a doctor or counselor."

"So?" Hawkeye asked, defending him.

"Well I was just checking some old medical books on the subject, and everything you did was spot-on; how did you know just how to help him?"

Mulcahy looked up, uncertain. He caught Hawkeye's eyes and cleared his throat, deciding to take a leap of faith. "Well, I… I once knew a very kind man who helped me, when I was in his shoes."

There was a moment's silence as everyone worked out what he'd said. Mulcahy hastily took a drink to fill the pause, and each eye was drawn to the label, which they for the first time realized was not the same as theirs.

Finally, Col. Potter broke the silence by raising a finger. "Rosie."

"Yeah, what?" the bartender said, walking over.

"Get the Padre here another sarsaparilla and put it on my tab."

"Make that five," Hawkeye spoke up. "We'll all have one." He looked over at Mulcahy. "My treat."

The priest looked around at all of them, stunned. As he watched, each of the senior staff handed their bottles, empty or not, to Rosie and accept the soda. His eyes misted over, and he ducked his head. "You didn't have to do that," he said, voice a little thick.

"We want to," the surgeon answered. The others echoed this in agreement, and Hawkeye opened his bottle and lifted it. "To perseverance," he said. "That we may all have it but never need it."

"Amen," Mulcahy finished. Everyone lifted their glasses in toast.

* * *

><p><strong>*The AMA declared four years later, in 1956, that alcoholism was an illness. In 1991, they classified it as a disease under both psychiatric and medical sections. According to this theory, genetics plays a large part in the passing on of the disease <strong>_**( **__** en. wikipedia wiki/Disease_theory _of_alcoholism **__**).**_**Throughout the series and the movie, it was hinted that both John Mulcahy's parents were heavy drinkers, suggesting a genetic link between their drinking problems and that of their son.**

***The Church declared after Vatican II that a certain type of low-alcohol wine (called mustum) could be used when performing the Mass. Alcoholism was and continues to be a struggle for some priests, many of whom by the strength of God have managed to overcome their addictions to better serve Him and their flocks.**


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